The Five Senses
by moms5thchild
Summary: How does all five senses impact a man with only four.


I have far too many stories on the go, but sometimes a story just flows out of my fingers, as this one did. I can only hope that this is good enough to subject to you for your perusal. I also thank my beta reader for checking my facts. Thanks, A. **And**, please read and review... I am a poor fanfiction writer who receives nothing from my scribblings but your kind or unkind words. I'll take both with a smile and a song in my heart.

**The Five Senses**

_There are five senses that show the world to us and the power they have to  
shape our lives are beyond our imaginings. Therefore, to save our sanity, we  
aren't aware of our senses and don't appreciate them for the marvels that  
they are._

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Battlin' Jack Murdock was a big man; tall, broad and muscular, a mountain of   
a man. His hands were scarred and gnarled. He had broken his fingers too  
many times to have the elegant hands of a piano player or any other artist.  
Yet, as he leaned over his sleeping son and tugged the stiff Brailled papers  
from beneath Matt's fingers Jack once again marvelled how versatile fingers  
could be.

"Dad," the sleep filled voice of Matt Murdock drew his father's attention  
once again.

"Hey, ain't it about time ya hit the hay, Kid," Jack rubbed the top of his  
son's head with gentle hands. "You havta write those tests tomorrow,  
don'cha?"

"The SAT's, yeah… that's why I'm studying."

"Well, it ain't gonna help if ya fall asleep during the writing, so get to  
bed." Jack waited quietly as Matt packed up his books to take to his room.   
"Hey, so I look stupid to you? Leave the books here and get some sleep."

Found out, Matt grinned and headed empty handed to his bedroom when he  
stopped, "Night, Dad, love ya."

"Yeah, love ya too… now get ta bed."

Jack waited until he heard the even breathing of his only child before he  
went to his own bed. Once he had slept with his long gone wife in the double  
bed that occupied the only bedroom in this shabby tenement apartment, but  
when he brought Matt home from the hospital Jack gave up the lonely, fading  
memories he found in that bed. Matt needed the room to help him heal and  
Jack knew his own wounds would never heal so he moved. Now Jack slept in the  
single bed in the side alcove that once was Matt's. Tonight, like every  
night since the accident, Jack reached under his pillow and pulled out his  
rosary. Its heavy wooden beads were scarred from the fingers of many  
Murdock men. He remembered his father absently cleaning his nails with the  
cross and blanched at the memory. George Murdock was a punk and a drunk.  
The day Jack watched his sainted mother laid to rest he had belted the  
miserable old bastard, taken the rosary and walked away forever. Then Jack  
became a punk and a drunk and now, as he felt the familiar heft of the beads  
he thanked God for his son. He no longer prayed that Matt's eyes would   
suddenly work; now Jack prayed that his son would become the best man he  
could be. He knew this was one prayer that God could answer as long as Jack  
worked with Him.

As quietly as his size twelve's could carry him, Jack Murdock went to his   
son. He knelt next to the bed and placed his right hand on his son's head  
and holding the beads in his left started his nightly ritual. Tonight's  
prayers were for SAT's and the college placements they could give his son.

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"Hey, Matt," Foggy Nelson's voice broke through the haze, "What do I do with  
the stuff in this dresser?"

Matt Murdock scrubbed his face with his hands, "I don't know, its just   
clothes, giv'em to the Salvation Army, I guess. Most of the stuff came from  
there anyway."

It had been two weeks since the murder of Jack Murdock, his college  
roommate's father, and Foggy was helping Matt clean out the apartment. The   
landlord had already rented it out and the remnants of Battlin' Jack Murdock  
had to be cleared out by the end of the month. Foggy's dad, Edward Nelson,  
had rented storage space for the stuff that Matt would keep and a truck  
would be by tomorrow to pick it up so things had to get done now. Foggy  
pulled a duffle bag out from under the little bed in the alcove and started   
pulling out dirty towels, sweat stained t-shirts and a worn pair of  
fingerless leather gloves. Suddenly Matt was beside him, his hands reaching  
for the laundry. Matt brought the clothes up to his nose and pulled in the  
scent of his father with the intensity of a drowning man gasping for air.  
Foggy didn't know what to do, was the smell of old sweat the same as the   
look of faded photographs?

"How about we take this home with us tonight?"

Matt could only nod his head.

Foggy grinned sheepishly, "I still need something to pack clothes in, got   
any suitcases or anything like that?"

"Yeah," Matt finally whispered, "there are cardboard boxes beside the  
fridge." With that he crammed the practice clothes back in the duffle and   
went to his bedroom to finish there.

Foggy got a box and taped it so it would handle the things in the dresser by  
the bed. The clothes were all clean but most were shabby. The few things  
that were decent and new were from Jack Murdock's climb up to the boxing  
championship. The socks might fit Matt, he thought as he opened the top  
drawer. Besides socks Foggy found a small box. It held cufflinks, tie pins  
and a thin gold band; the crown jewels of the Murdock clan. Nestled there  
was also a brown, wooden rosary, well worn and shiny from much use. Foggy  
rummaged around until he found a lone silk handkerchief and wrapped the  
beads tightly inside before he slipped it into his pocket. Matt would want  
these with him, not lost in a locker.

"Foggy, want an old black and white TV," Matt called from the living room.

"For what; a door stop? Keep it; it'll be an antique someday. You keep working  
in there and I'll start the kitchen next." Foggy leaned against the wall and watched  
as Matt carefully wrapped the knickknacks that sat on the windowsills. By tomorrow  
this place would only be a memory and Matt was collecting those memories the  
only way he could… with his fingers. "How about I get a pizza, I'm starving."

"Sounds good," Matt mumbled as he ran his hands along the sill, looking for  
more treasures.

"I'll be right back," and Foggy turned to leave Matt alone to say his goodbyes to his home.

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He gripped the end of his billy club tightly, swinging to the next rooftop  
with the grace of a trapeze artist. A flick of his wrist and the high  
tension line snaked back inside the stick, ready to be used again. Tonight  
he faced the Purple Man and for the first time in years felt his remaining  
senses used against him. It was only his steely will _and_ his blindness that had   
saved him from the control of the megalomaniac and had thus saved Karen  
Page's life.

Karen Page, what a world of possibilities that name conjured up in his mind.  
Daredevil had saved her life more than once, but it was Matt Murdock who  
loved her. Matt Murdock knew the feel of her arm when she guided him on the  
street. He knew the sound of her heartbeat and the scent of her perfume but  
he longed to know every bump, dimple and freckle that covered her skin.  
Now, all Matt had to do was get up the nerve to ask her on a real  
date.

Damn. Why was he so hesitant? He had dated a lot of girls in high school and   
college. Bernadette Belanger had taught him that a home run was so much more  
fun when you weren't playing baseball, but with Karen Page he couldn't even  
get to the plate, let alone first base.

Suddenly his radar senses told Daredevil he was about to over shoot the  
roof. "Damn," he muttered as he snapped the billy club once more to save his  
ass from the concrete street below. Echoes bounced back at him, guiding his  
throw. The line snaked out to the spire of Mary Immaculate Church and found  
purchase there. He landed with a jerk and cursed under his breath as his  
boots slammed noisily down. The slate shingles on this roof were slippery,  
so Daredevil went into the bell tower to gather his thoughts and keep him  
from ending up street pizza. The damn costume was probably dirty again.  
Whatever had made him choose black and yellow for his alter ego's outfit?  
Why, because of his father, that was why. The last time he had 'seen' his  
father spar Jack Murdock was wearing these colours and Daredevil was at  
heart a sentimental Irishman.

Beneath him Daredevil could hear the quiet sounds of an electric organ. The   
player must have had headphones on, but that was not enough to keep the  
music from Daredevil's enhanced hearing. He smirked when he realized the  
organist was playing 'Route 66' and not 'Faith of Our Fathers'. The sound of  
footsteps stopped the song.

"Are you ready for the Thurston wedding, Kathleen?" a gravely male voice  
asked.

"Yes, Father Keenan," the teenaged trill accompanied by the quickened  
heartbeat of a lie was the answer. "I'm just getting every last note perfect."

"Yes, you'll be a regular Nat King Cole by the time you're done," the priest  
shot over his shoulder as he walked away.

"Busted," Daredevil whispered as he got ready to fly to the next rooftop.  
Maybe he'd go past Karen's apartment… again. Maybe, this time, if she was   
awake he would change his out of his costume, into his street clothes and  
knock on her door. Then again, maybe not.

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Salt. Once, after he had learned Matt's secret, Foggy had counted the  
grains of salt on a pretzel stick. Afterward, Matt ate the pretzel and   
guessed correctly that there had been nine grains of salt on the damn thing…  
Foggy paid him five bucks and swore he'd never gamble against his friend  
again.

Salt. Jack Murdock always drenched his cooking in that particular white  
death. After his accident Matt had to learn to cook so he could keep from  
gagging each time he sat down to a meal. Ketchup, pepper, sugar… these  
flavours hit Matt like a sledge hammer to the palate.

Salt. When tears slid down his cheeks and into his mouth Matt Murdock hadthe  
taste of salt crowd out all others. Jack Murdock, Karen Page, ElektraNatchios  
and now Foggy Nelson were names that conjured up brine in his mind.It was  
overpowering. It was oppressive.

Salt was the taste of sorrow.

Now, on Ryker's Island, even the taste of salt was muted by the taste of  
filth that permeated the air around him. Wilson Fisk was in here, waiting to  
catch Matthew Murdock in an unguarded moment. So was Benjamin Poindexter, or  
Lester Poindexter or whatever the hell Bull's Eye was calling himself at the  
moment. Who else was here, the Owl, the Purple Man or any other of the  
criminals that he had cleaned up off the streets of the Kitchen? Never in  
his life had Matt Murdock ever thought he'd be included in the populace of  
Ryker's. Well, there was another assumption all shot to hell.

Tonight, as the guards led him to the mess hall where the food was laced  
with saltpetre a foot was stuck out in his path. He knew it was there; he  
knew he had to trip and fall on his face to keep up the charade of  
helplessness in this hopeless place. Then the coppery taste of his own blood  
hit his taste buds. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders, flung him onto a  
seat and voila, dinner was served.

There was one bright spot in this whole, god damn mess. Milla had phoned him  
and admitted she still loved him. He had a wife waiting for him outside the  
walls of the prison and Matt knew he had to keep her safe. He had not been  
able to do that for Elektra, Karen or Foggy but Matt vowed he would keep his   
wife safe even unto his last breath.

Matt made it back to his cell and remembered the feel of Milla's skin, the  
scent of her hair and the taste of her lips. Time to let the dead bury the  
dead, but first Matt Murdock had to find out who killed Foggy Nelson. He  
could take his time. Revenge was a dish best served cold.

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There was a scuffle outside the door.

The body guard was holding back whoever was demanding to be let inside.

Whoever? The heartbeat, the smell, the voice that wasn't supposed to exist   
anymore drew Matt up like a siren's call. He pushed the door open.

"Foggy?"

Familiar arms wrapped around his neck as Matt grasped his friend.

"Damn, Matt," Foggy's emotion clogged voice filled his ears. "You are a  
sight for sore eyes."

Fin


End file.
